


Off Label

by Andixa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-08 06:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andixa/pseuds/Andixa
Summary: Or, Humanizing Sherlock Holmes Through the Accidental and Incidental Application of Drugs, Medications, and other Mind Altering Substances.Or, Yeah It Really Happens That Often.A collection of incidents wherein Sherlock is drugged while on a case. Voluntary, post-case, and case-unrelated drug use left as an exercise to the reader.





	1. benzoylmethylecgonine

**Author's Note:**

> This is roughly in order from John’s point of view, not in actual chronological order. Mostly one-shots. Each chapter is third person, but every few chapters a character decides to take over a bit.
> 
> Honestly I've been fucking around with this for years now. Each time I try to finish it, I come across a new drug/chapter to add, then never finish anything.
> 
> Rated for drug use, not sexual content. Sherlock gets drugged in every chapter, but most of the time it's accidental. I'll add a short description in the bottom notes of each chapter, in case anything is triggering.

The first time happens only two weeks after the pink lady (and the drugs bust they never talk about.) It’s like something out of a slapstick comedy; even years later, no one can quite believe it actually, really, honestly happened.

Sherlock was behaving for once, waiting for the Met to bust in and secure the area instead of running off after the spooked drug dealer. He even waited by the door—serendipity, or perhaps Sherlockian humours, since it meant that a nearby support beam was there to shield him from stray bullets once everything went pear-shaped.

Here’s how it went, as best as anyone can remember after the fact:

Everyone runs into an old warehouse. That’s not the beginning-beginning, of course, they’re running for a reason, but that’s when things start to get interesting. Or fall apart, depending on who you ask.

The situation—an unarmed man, young, shifty, on his own, fleeing on foot, apparently the weak link in a local drug cartel—develops quite suddenly into an all-out firefight, with five men waving illegal firearms, shouting and taking wild potshots from the second floor balcony.

Special Forces takes them down before anyone is hurt, but not before they send a shower bullets straight through their own ridiculously large supply of high grade, uncut cocaine—a supply of cocaine that just so happened to be laid out in full and completely unprotected; a thick pyramid of overstuffed plastic bags atop a high table on the near end of the room, immediately in front of Sherlock Holmes.

It goes up in a big billowy cloud of flour-white, and when the air clears, the consulting detective is covered head-to-toe in Class A narcotic. His hair, his face, his scarf, and the upper two-thirds of his long coat, all as white as a statue. He blinks, and powder dusts off his eyelashes.

Lestrade’s mouth gapes open. Donovan makes some sort of choking noise. A few constables peek over the edge of the balcony, and just… stare. A few feet away, close enough to have a bit of powder on his jumper, John’s face is scrunched up in resignation.

Calm as can be, Sherlock pulls off his scarf, shakes it once, and uses it to wipe uncut cocaine away from his eyes, nose, and mouth. It seems to shake everyone back into movement. Lestrade shuts his gob, the constables go back to the business of sorting out criminals, and John begins plying him with dry tissues and stern instructions.

No one is quite sure whether the circumstances were hilarious or deadly, or possibly both, so they mostly just carry on. And then Sherlock is looking at John, who is doing that thing with his mouth, and John is looking at Sherlock, who is still quite powdery and now starting to grin. It sets them off, giggling like mad, then to flat out belly laughs. John has a folded handkerchief over his nose and mouth, but Sherlock makes absolutely no attempt to avoid the clouds of white dust drifting down from his hair.

“I,” breathes the consulting detective, “am high as fuck right now.”

They giggle all the way back to New Scotland Yard in the back of a police car, which Sherlock announces is “just like old times, John!”

He refuses to be taken to hospital, of course, even though it was entirely mandatory after being exposed to drugs in the line of duty. Because, he whines, he was not technically working for the Met -- only with the Met -- and besides he has his doctor right here with him.

Really, though, no one wants to try reasoning with a coked-up Sherlock Holmes.

(Especially since, somehow, a coked-up Sherlock Holmes knows exactly the right combination of bedroom eyes and lower lip biting that can make everyone’s thoughts—up to and including those of Sergeant Sally Donovan—dive right down deep into the gutter. And he uses it. Liberally. Ever-so-slightly coked-up John Watson finds it hilarious.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets covered in a comical amount of cocaine. That's about it.


	2. diamorphine hydrochloride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade isn’t initially convinced the second time is accidental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the one hand, injection guns are technically a thing. On the other, literally nothing about this is realistic and I refuse to apologize.

Lestrade isn’t initially convinced the second time is accidental, not until a member of his team gets jabbed too. By the end of the night, they’ve rounded up a total of four injection guns hidden among the victim’s hoarded belongings—fiddly little things that went off with just the slightest pressure, which seemed both extremely dangerous and entirely illegal.

This time really does require a trip to the hospital, no matter how stridently Sherlock protests. (He doesn’t, not really, and that clinches it more than anything else). 

The victim, a thirty year old heiress whose psych file was two inches thick, had died of an overdose in her perfectly organized, impressively over-stuffed townhouse. In their favor was her wealth and her obsessive-compulsive cleanliness, which—while also providing motive for her murder—meant the likelihood of dirty needles was fairly low. Even still, John was quick to put his foot down. There’s no knowing what was in those syringes, and getting stuck with a strange needle could mean bacterial infection, hepatitis, even HIV.

The incident kicks off with a sharp and uncharacteristic curse from Sherlock, followed by an exasperated huff: “Heroin. How _dull_.” 

John is, of course, immediately on hand to examine the injection site and assault his flatmate’s eyes with a penlight. Mouth flattened into a grim line, he crowds the detective away from his mountain of evidence, out onto the porch and right into Lestrade’s path.

“Dr. Watson--”

“He’s been dosed with something,” John interrupts. “I’m not sure what or how; probably a needle somewhere in that mess.” 

“It was _heroin_ ,” says the detective. “Keep up, John.”

Sherlock is already sluggish and glassy-eyed, a look Lestrade was all too familiar with from his time in special crimes. It isn’t a look he generally associates with Sherlock Holmes; uppers are more his thing, at least when he’s working. But there was that accidental relapse just last month, and morphine had been an occasional vice in Sherlock’s not-so-distant past. The detective could be sliding back into old habits.

“We shouldn’t need an ambulance, but I do need to get him to hospital,” Watson fusses. Lestrade recalls the man’s naïve conviction that _Sherlock Holmes_ , of all people, couldn’t _possibly_ have drugs in their flat. ( _Seriously. This guy, a junkie_?)

There’d been a dozen or so cases, another unofficial drugs bust, and countless cuts and bruises since then, and still, every other week saw Dr. John Watson ducking under the yellow tape. How someone so, well, so _ordinary_ found himself living with Sherlock bloody Holmes—let alone trailing after him, working with him, documenting his madness, or whatever it is the doctor did—Lestrade can’t say.

Then Sam Brown from forensics yelps, and next thing you know, they’re all four bundled into Lestrade’s unmarked car on their way to the Royal London. Brown takes the passenger seat, doggedly upright, while Sherlock lolls petulantly in the back seat. 

Slumped and uncharacteristically rumpled in Lestrade’s rear-view mirror, working through deductions like treacle—the man doesn’t even have the decency to look like a regular junkie. Or even a regular human being. No, sprawled out in that tailored kit of his, Sherlock Holmes looks like some kind of bright-eyed fever demon. 

“Hydrochloride salt form,” he mumbles, “only water, no heat. East coast. Strange way to store it. Injection guns, incredibly dangerous, how, where, and why so many? Not with her index, she _clearly_ had an index, so, no. Ah! Of course, the rings—two of them!”

Sherlock’s colleague? roommate? whatever, is in the seat next to him, looking grim and doctorly. For such an unassuming bloke, he’s got this face that can say a million things with half a glance. Right then it’s saying, if Lestrade were to translate: _everything is going to be fine, because I am a competent doctor who will_ ** _make sure_** _it will be fine, and god help anyone who tries to stop me_ — _Sherlock Holmes is a right sorry pain in my arse_ — _this is ridiculous and it’s taking too long_ — _and no, I am not holding his hand, I’m checking the pulse on his wrist because I’m a_ ** _competent doctor_** — _now drive_ ** _faster_** _if you please._

And it was all _kinds_ of weird, seeing someone actually touch the mad bastard. The doctor had even slung an arm around Sherlock for support earlier, natural as can be. Like he wasn’t touching the heretofore untouchable. Like Sherlock Holmes was flesh and blood just like everyone else. Ridiculous.

“You saw the rings, John?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. You mean the coffee rings on her tablecloth? Odd, that. Everything else seemed so clean. Nice to see a clean kitchen for once.”

“Well done, John!” the detective—well, he _purrs_. “You’re practically king of the idiots. In a good way, I mean.”

“Thanks,” the doctor sighs. “Does that mean you’ve solved it, then?”

“No,” Sherlock frowns, “although it would serve the police right if I did, on heroin of all things—really!—when they’ve had six other chances at least, and not called me. Look at the coffee rings, the silverware with _all_ the spoons removed—obvious. The entire thing was staged, it’s just a matter of _who_.” 

He solves the case two minutes before they pulled into the A&E dropoff, tying this incident to a string of overdoses and suicides that turned out to be the work of a psychotherapist-turned-serial-killer. John has to agree: the case was barely a four, even with the heroin.

(When the consultant—consultants?—come in to make their statements, John’s expressive face has eye bags that scream _exhausted_ , a little quirk to the lips that says _beginning to agree with Himself about you people_ , and deep forehead lines of _fuck you all for letting this happen and fuck you twice for saddling me with Sherlock Holmes in opioid withdrawal_. _)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets stuck with an injection gun containing heroin.


	3. nitrous oxide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time, John was drugged too, and it was the most fun he’s ever had surrounded by six dead bodies.

The third time, John was drugged too, and it was the most fun he’s ever had surrounded by six dead bodies. 

Long story short, Anderson fucked with a canister and gassed half the officers on site. Seriously—the man just started _fiddling_ , who _fiddles_ with random medical equipment at a crime scene? Who does that? Alright, sure, the medical equipment in question had some interesting modifications to its functionality, and had directly led to aforementioned six dead bodies, but still. _Fiddling_. 

So here’s a thing: Sherlock is unbearably, unbelievably, ridiculously charming when he laughs. No, no, it sounds weird, but his whole face goes from mystery-drama-cheekbones to bowed lips and goofy smile lines and dimples (are those dimples? John’s pretty sure they’re dimples). It’s just _getting_ him to laugh that’s the problem. At home, in a taxi, cracking jokes at the far edge of a crime scene? Sure. And he _fakes_ it all the time, which is incredibly creepy. But for real, where any idiot could see? Nope. Neeeyoope.

At least... not until Anderson flooded the room with laughing gas.

Anyway. Sherlock is laughing, charming, absolutely delightful. Mad as a bloody bag of cats, yes, but who cares when the room is spinning, everything is hilarious, it’s them against the world, and they’ve a murderer to catch. He says something probably, no, _definitely_ Not Good that makes Sherlock crack up, which makes John crack up again, and he’s not sure what’s gotten into them but it seems to have gotten into the rest of the forensics crew, too.

Except Lestrade. Lestrade’s in the doorway, and John tries to explain how very _funny_ it is, but he’s not sure _why_ or even _what’s_ so funny—and Sherlock’s got the DI by the shoulders crowing “whippets, for god’s sake, _whippets_!” which sets him off into another fit of giggles. Yeah, that’s right, John’s manly enough not to mind giggling. 

Lestrade looks between the two, jaw ever so slightly unhinged. He does that a lot.

“You’re _insane_ —both of you.”

“That’s—that’s no fair,” Sherlock wheezes, “throwing John’s PTSD around like that.”

“Christ, you _berk_!” John lunges at his flatmate, clamping a hand over the man’s mouth. Sherlock bats him away, and they’re laughing again. “I can’t believe you just said that!”

And then Lestrade is dragging them both outside, ordering Donovan—who is dizzy, a bit silly, but still mostly professional—to call hazmat. He seems really interested in sitting them all down on a low stone wall. It’s cold.

“Doctor, what is this? Are they alright? Dr. Watson?”

“Jesus Christ, Greg, I’ve got a first name. Is who alright?”

“Everyone! They’re—ah. They’re—” 

“High as a kite; isn’t it just delightful?” Sherlock is pure smug satisfaction, but still smiling, and now it’s all sideways and rakish—even _John_ hasn’t seen that one before. Lestrade can’t help a confused smile in return.

“Dr. Watson—John. You’re, they’re all... laughing? And Sherlock’s… kinda _goofy_.”

“ _Obviously_ we’re laughing,” John says, because Sherlock always got to say that sort of thing, “because it’s _laughing gas_. _Do_ try to keep up.” 

“So my team—”

“Your team is fine, George, Geoff. Whatever. Hello, _team_! Aren’t you just fine? Has anyone done whippets before now?” Sherlock gives them a jaunty little wave. Several techs wave back, wide-eyed and possibly even a bit starstruck. Sam Brown gives him a thumbs up.

(Once the nitrous oxide wore off, Sherlock remembered what had set them giggling in the first place: there hadn’t been a murder at all, let alone six; only an illicit laughing gas party gone wrong.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laughing gas and laughing, that's all!


	4. caffeine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the first three times, John begins to wonder “is this normal, these incidents? The accidental drugs?”

After the first three times, John begins to wonder “is this normal, these incidents? The accidental drugs?”

“It’s… not abnormal,” Lestrade confirms, “for Sherlock.”

_Technically_ it’s not the fourth time, since it happened years ago, and he’s only now hearing about it from Lestrade over a pint.

“I mean, obviously we had problems with him early on, with _recreational_ drugs,” Lestrade shrugs, “but even when he’s clean, _something_ always ends up in his system. It just _happens_. Take this one time, must’ve been a few months after he started coming around. A diamond theft. We’re on a stakeout at some posh butcher shop in Knightsbridge, waiting for a hotel concierge of all things--” 

John holds up a hand: “ _You_ were on a stakeout. With _Sherlock_.”

“Yeah, well. More or less. His nibs was convinced the guy would show up at this exact butcher shop, something about the poultry being locally sourced. He needed a car, or maybe just an ear to bend—and he was this skinny kid just out of rehab, you know how it is. I wanted to help, and, well, maybe things weren’t the best with the wife. Seemed reasonable _at the time_.”

“Doesn’t it always. Alright, so you’re on a stakeout. What’d he do, run off and trip nose first into a bag of cocaine?”  
  
“Wouldn’t be surprised, but no. Never even left the car, I’m sorry to say.”

“He got himself drugged _in_ the car? In _your_ car?”  
  
“Least it wasn’t a panda car. And we were actually getting along for once, believe it or not. He was a right bastard in his twenties, but if I recall correctly, I’d just snubbed his brother over something or other so he must’ve been feeling generous. It was almost fun—I had a few snacks handy, weather wasn’t too nasty, _Sherlock_ wasn’t too nasty. You ever see him do that deduction thing on random people? That one’s a coke addict, that one’s got six cats, that one’s a little too fond of stuffed animals?”

“That’s my typical Friday night, mate. Yeah.”

“Right, ‘course. Anyway, thing is, I used to eat these chocolate covered espresso beans...” he paused to make firm eye contact with John. “I cannot stress this enough: _NEVER_ give him caffeinated candy. Or energy drinks. Or anything. Ever. Don’t even let him near the stuff. He’s got no sense. Ate himself sick before I even noticed.”

“Best way to get food in him: put it in his hands and let him talk at you. Long as it’s bite sized, I don’t think he even notices. How much did he have?”

“Three and a half boxes. Well over ten thousand milligrams of caffeine, near as I can tell.”

“Jesus, Greg. He could’ve gone into cardiac arrest.”  
  


“Don’t I know it! We finally get the kid off the—whatever he was taking, and he almost snuffs it over a box of chocolate. At first I thought, Christ, he talks even more when he’s sober. But he starts looking pale—paler than he already is—dizzy, sweating, and I’m thinking he fell off the wagon right under my nose. I’m about to lose my badge. Then he’s all ‘don’t be _tedious_ , Grant,’ and ‘you think I’m using, how could you _possibly_ mistake this for opioid symptoms,’—oh, and ‘there’s the concierge making his escape, _well done_.’ I was kicking myself for weeks, not to mention looking over my shoulder for that brother of his. He was fine, of course. It’s sturdy, whatever he’s made of. Puked all over my back seat, but it wasn’t the first time or the last.” 

(It actually _was_ the last time Sherlock Holmes puked in a police car; taxis and Lestrade’s shoes are another story.)

(Greg still receives a neatly wrapped box of Crackheads chocolate covered espresso beans for Christmas every year. He doesn’t know which Holmes is responsible, and he’s not sure he ever wants to know.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caffeinated candy on a stakeout with Lestrade. Yum.


	5. (I’ve used it on loads of my friends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth time is Irene Adler.

The fifth time is Irene Adler. The police arrive just in time to be worse than useless; most of them are preoccupied with their camera phones as the consulting detective slurs and stumbles out of Irene Adler’s absurdly posh townhouse. John drags him home and leaves him mumbling into the duvet. 

(It’s not until the texts start arriving—with their distinctive _ohhhh_ —that he stops to wonder exactly how Sherlock’s coat made its way back to them, when it was last seen fluttering around a pair of ridiculously long, sinfully feminine, disturbingly bare legs.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannon drugs!


	6. tetrahydrocannabinol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth incident is preceded by a series of slightly unusual events: Lestrade’s birthday; a string of apparent wildcat attacks in central London; a London cab strike; John’s unexpected shift change; and an unfortunate but mostly harmless dessert-related mix-up.

The sixth incident is preceded by a series of slightly unusual events: Lestrade’s birthday (which, to be fair, does happen on the same day every year); a string of wildcat attacks in central London (actually murder, a six) on the heels of two lengthy murder investigations (both sevens); a London cab strike (possibly localized to 221B Baker Street and residents thereof); John’s unexpected shift change (leading to Sherlock’s lack of assistant-friend-nanny); and an unfortunate but harmless dessert-related mix-up.

All of this boiled down to a very hungry Sherlock Holmes, trapped for two hours in a car with several members of the Met, and no John to smuggle him a pastry. Not that everyone else wasn’t hungry, but they all had the sense to eat breakfast (and dinner the previous day, and lunch before that, et cetera.) 

So Sherlock had a pot brownie for lunch. Three, in fact, although he didn’t realize what he’d eaten until he was halfway through the second one and colors started vibrating, maths began getting in the way of his deductions, and officer Merrilow—who’d brought the brownies for Lestrade’s birthday party—started to sweat. 

Damn his sweet tooth, anyway. 

“ _Relax_ , Lestrade. I’m fine. I’ve done drugs your narcotics department hasn’t even heard of; a few edibles are nothing. Now shut up and let me do my job.”

It was a perfectly Sherlockian statement, nothing strange there. Granted, no one had made a sound in the last ten minutes, but that was also within the realm of typical Sherlock behavior. If his voice was slower and a bit more rumbling than usual, no harm there. And the drugs—well, that isn’t unusual, either. When Sherlock handed him the tray and informed him “I appear to be _quite_ stoned,” Lestrade had just sighed, sent Merrilow home for the day, and let his consultant get on with the work. 

What has Lestrade a bit out of sorts, what finally pushes him to inquire, “alright, Sherlock?” Well, that was the… dancing? Wobbling? And the humming. And the intermittent bouts of complete and utter _nonsense_. Between the man’s usual torrent of deductions, they’d already been treated to an amiable discourse on enzymes in honey, two surprisingly lucid lectures on Newtonian physics, and something that sounded like advanced algebra. 

The DI considers that this might be what ‘mellow’ looks like on Sherlock Holmes. It certainly _seems_ like ‘mellow,’ at least an extremely chatty version of ‘mellow.’

“Here, you see? It’s obvious. _Two_ people, the taller wielding a sort of modified hammer or club. You can still see the patterns of the blood as it… as it flows down, adhering to the—oh. _Oh!_ Flowing in three dimensions, the Navier-Stokes, wonder if it looks like—vector velocity and scalar pressure, _that’s_ what mummy was talking about. I should call, she’ll—oh, _damn it_.”

Cutting off his own rambling, the consulting detective drags Lestrade forward by the forearm, presenting him with (or perhaps _to_ ) the blood-spattered wall. Then over to the other side of the room, weaving carefully around the yellow lines that traced the barn floor. 

“You’re looking for a man, a little over six feet tall, experienced but not a full-time employee, some knowledge of metalwork; he designed a club to resemble the claws of a wild lynx or puma, or designed the claws and then simply used the item as a club—I can’t be entirely sure. And arrest Mrs. Ronder; her husband was abusive to her as well as to the illegal animals he—good _lord_ , is that _chartreuse_? Atrocious.”

(When he returns from his shift, John finds his flatmate on the phone—actually talking on the phone, not texting—going on about some kind of maths and looking rather put out. Everything green in the flat has been painted over or meticulously hidden under old newspaper, including a bowl of green apples. The remains of a full five-course meal for two, which Sherlock does not admit to cooking and subsequently refuses to clean up after, are left out on John’s side of the table.)

(Sherlock tells him the entire story, honey enzymes and all, over tea the next morning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Special" brownies leading to crime-fighting and mathematics.


	7. temazepam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John counts the seventh one because it kicked in at a crime scene, and because he actually convinced Sherlock to file a complaint with the police. A complaint against John’s girlfriend,

John counts the seventh one because it kicked in at a crime scene, and because—after a massive row, several threats he had no intention of following through on, and forty-eight hours of silent treatment—he actually convinced Sherlock to file a complaint with the police. 

A complaint _against John’s girlfriend_ , because as much as everyone keeps telling him otherwise, the seventh time is all John’s fault. 

His girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend, now: Suzanne-don’t-call-me-Suzy, who he met over a malfunctioning chip-and-pin machine, whose own battle with insomnia allowed for John’s odd hours, and who (like many of John’s previous girlfriends) took an instant but quiet dislike to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock never once called her Suzy, but John thinks she must have heard it in every oozing syllable—when he deigned to remember her name at all, which wasn't any more often than any of John's previous girlfriends.

If anything, he’d been more polite to Suzanne than most of John’s girlfriends—if refusing to acknowledge her existence counted as _polite_ —despite her unusually frequent and prolonged visits. It couldn’t have been too difficult; she spent most of her time quietly listening to John talk (straining the limits of John’s already limited small talk), quietly gazing into John’s eyes, quietly leading John upstairs … quietly _everything_ , really. 

There were a few sideways comments about the detective swanning about (and his occasional state of undress), but otherwise he was pointedly ignored. She even kept her back to him, facing John, wedged between the two of them—if John’s not mistaken, she’d actually started herding him out of the room whenever Sherlock was around. 

It got old after the first few days, and he’d been thinking of ending things for weeks now… but John has never been good at doing the breaking-up part of a break-up, and these days living with Sherlock took care of that for him. 

The case is nothing special—a home invasion that had ended in murder—but it gets them out of the flat, and gives John an excuse to send Suzanne home early after three days of one-sided small talk. Sherlock has it nearly solved, just from Lestrade’s texts, and only wants to confirm a few key pieces of evidence before presenting his deductions. Although the detective could (and often did) flee the small-talk hell of 221B, John suspects his flatmate is enjoying the respite, too.

They haven’t even made it past the yellow tape, Sherlock droning on about rope burn and stolen silver while John promises himself (for the third and final time) that he will break it off with Suzanne the next day—when Sherlock trips on flat pavement. 

“Alright, there? Sherlock?”

“Mmm, he’s a cruise thip-- cruith... _cruise ship_ employee. She’s got pictures all over social media, and he’s easy to spot once you’ve identified—ah.” The detective stumbles again, and this time John can see that one ridiculously posh shoe catching against the other. “Once you’ve... identified the signs of domestic abuse, the rest is obvious... tedious, really.” 

He trails off, sounding mostly like a bored Sherlock Holmes usually sounds, except he’s found the side of the building and decided to lean against it, and his words are ever so slightly slurred. Sherlock has been fed and watered—a sandwich and a large mug of tea before they left—and hasn’t done anything strenuous or worked with any suspicious chemicals in at least a week, so there’s no reason for it. 

“Sherlock?”

You’d expect him to fall like a titan, with that height of his—but he slides down the wall quietly. He looks dizzy and lethargic and _confused_. 

“Sherlock? Jesus Christ, are you having a _stroke_?”

“John? I’m… what?”

“Sherlock. _Are you. Having. A stroke._ ”

“...fairly certain,” he eventually slurs, “not di’gnostic criteria, there. Doctor. But no, ‘s probably drugs.”

It probably _is_ drugs. 

He runs through the standard tests, though—just to be safe—before ducking past the police tape to call emergency services. On his way back, he pilfers a few supplies from an unattended forensics kit.

John takes a blood sample right then and there. He isn’t Sherlock Holmes, but he knew people, and he was still a doctor; he had a fair idea of what Sherlock was on, and who was responsible. 

Suzanne had poured the tea, just before they left. John had even handed Sherlock the cup. 

She seemed like such a nice girl. She was quiet. She was unassuming. She was definitely a bit resentful—but who knew she’d up and put benzos in the madman’s tea? Not John, certainly, and apparently not Sherlock.

  
(She isn’t quiet when Lestrade and his team arrive, somewhat vindictively, to arrest her. She screams bloody murder—along with _freak_ and _psychopath_ and _deviant_. “I know I said not to deduce my dates,” John says, “but save us some time and tell me when they actually _hate_ you.” “I’ll let you know when one doesn’t,” Sherlock replies.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one actual involves non-consensual drugging! Johns (now ex) girlfriend puts a sedative in Sherlock's tea, out of jealousy. John's there, nothing much happens, Sherlock files charges.


	8. magnesium hydroxide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eighth (and ninth? tenth?) incidents are second-hand, this time from Sally Donovan of all people.

The eighth (and ninth? tenth?) incidents are second-hand, this time from Sally Donovan of all people. The responsible party was a rookie in forensics who thought Sherlock needed taking down a peg or two—not exactly unusual, but this one went the pharmaceutical route. 

“Laxatives,” John stares over his pint. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Yep. Swear on my badge.”

“That’s… actually really terrible.”

“I know. I mean, the freak’s not exactly my favorite person in the world—” _obviously,_ John’s brain supplies, “—but there’s some lines you just don’t cross. And anyway, it wasn’t all that funny. He just ended up sick.”

“Let me guess,” he rubs his forehead. He’s two and a half pints in by now, and trying very hard not to snap. “Sherlock, being Sherlock, couldn’t possibly react like a normal person. He had some rare allergic reaction you only ever read about on WebMD and had to be rushed to the hospital.”

“Nah, he just sicked it back up. All over the Inspector’s shoes, too. We were all waiting for him to go running to the loo, then suddenly he just horks it back up. I guess Johannson put _way_ too much in his coffee. Turned his stomach before it could get any further, at least as far as any of us could tell.”

“You must’ve been disappointed,” he replies. 

She laughs. If she notices he isn’t commiserating, she doesn’t let on. In fact, John’s not sure if his disbelief has ever quite registered with Sally, who seems to consider it her duty to warn the entire population of London off of Sherlock Holmes. 

“Dangerous, though.”

“Nah, Joe just got a slap on the wrist. There was talk of pressing charges for a while, but nothing ever came of it. Imagine the freak knew he’d be kicked the the curb, if he made a fuss.”

“I meant for Sherlock. Dangerous for _Sherlock_.”

“Oh. Right. Like I said, he was fine. Bit of a drama queen about the whole thing, really. I’ve got pictures—”

“Nope! No.” John sets his glass down and throws up his hands. “You are not showing me pictures of my flatmate in gastrointestinal distress after being deliberately and maliciously _poisoned by the police_. He doesn’t deserve that. I don’t care how many times he’s called Anderson an idiot. No one deserves that.” 

“Please,” she snorts, “like you haven’t heard him bust up witnesses, or seen him light up over some poor bloke that’s been torn to bloody pieces. He likes it; likes the death, likes making us look bad. So what if we get a little of our own back?”

“I cannot comprehend the fact that some people can enjoy hurting—”

“It’s true. He’s indecent!”

“I wasn’t _talking_ about _Sherlock_.”

Sally doesn’t seem to have an answer to that, but the conversation is diverted when Lestrade slides into the booth next to her. 

“Gossiping about Himself? Told you the one with the candy already, what’s it this time?”

“Laxatives, apparently.”

“Oh yeah? It’s always the rookies. Was it the burping one, the destruction of my favorite shoes, or the one where it kinda worked?”

_Jesus H. Christ_ , John thought, putting his head in his hands, _what is wrong with these people._ And on the heels of that, _no wonder Sherlock doesn’t like to eat during cases._

(After a bit more alcohol and a cab ride home, John climbs up to his room and spends an hour or so letting it spin around him. He thinks about Sherlock, who curled his lip at the idea of going out for a pint with the team. Pictures precise little microscope slides of pollen and bacteria and, yes, human tissue; the foot in the crisper; the skull on their mantle. The gun in his own desk drawer. The messy, self-destructive boredom. Serial killers. Drugs. Rooftops. Afghanistan. All the Sally Donovans of the world, who assume John’s average face makes him _average_ , and his grasp of basic social norms make him _normal_.)

  
(In Baskerville—which John has decided to count as incident number nine, since the detective ended up drugged too—Sherlock tries to spike John’s coffee. John isn’t sure what to do with the fact that he’s _still_ more pissed at Donovan than he is at his sociopathic, lunatic, asshole of a roommate. He considers them even after secretly ruining at least sixteen of his stupid experiments, and putting salt in his tea for the next three months.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laxatives in his coffee; no actual gastrointestinal issues depicted.


	9. lysergic acid diethylamide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tenth time comes when John is in the middle of a very promising date.

The tenth time comes when John is in the middle of a very promising date. He lets the call ring through twice, until Janet—no, Jennifer, it’s Jennifer—takes mercy on him with a thin smile.

“Didn’t I see you silence that when we came in?”

“Yeah, um, I did. Sorry. There’s a setting, it lets the call through if someone calls more than three times in two minutes. For emergencies, I guess. Sherlock set it up.”

“Well, there’s no helping it. Go on,” she nods at his pocket, which has started buzzing again.

“Are you sure?” But he’s already reaching for it. It’s Lestrade’s name on the screen, not his bloody invasive roommate. 

“Actually, yeah, I’d better take this. Sorry. Lestrade? It’s—yes, actually, I’m—no. Yes. On a date, actually.”

...

“He’s _what_? What do you mean, _dosed_ him?”

...

“Right. Right. Okay. You’re telling me someone—”

...

“Where? Right. Okay. Fine.”

Julie is looking at him with a smile that reminds him of Sherlock’s. The really fake one. 

“You’re not going to believe this, but I need to go pick up my flatmate. Apparently he’s managed to get himself dosed with LSD at a crime scene, and I need to go talk him down from the ledge. I hope not literally.”

“Listen, John, it’s fine. You don’t have to make excuses. Although if you aren’t interested, the least you could do is be honest with me.”

“Oh, no no no. Sorry. No. This is— I’m not making this up, my friend is actually— he’s, well, we work with the Met, and he’s always haring off—”

  
“Look, I understand—”

“No! It’s—I mean, you can come.”

“What?”

“You can come along. See for yourself.”

“Come see your friend.”

“Yes.”

“Who is on LSD. At a crime scene.”

“Yes. No. I mean, someone tricked him into taking the LSD. He’s not a druggie or anything—err, not at the moment, at least.”

“I... see.”

“That… sounds terrible, doesn’t it. He’s at hospital, though. Royal London. It’s quite safe, I promise.”

“...you know what? Fine. Let’s go see your friend at the hospital. But I'm driving.”

The ride to Royal London Hospital is quiet and _unbelievably_ awkward. His date clearly thinks she’s calling his bluff. When they arrive and he makes a beeline for the nurse’s station, she hangs back and bites her lip. He spares her a weak smile.

Sherlock, when they find him, has been installed in a single-occupancy room in a low-traffic area of the hospital (courtesy of Mycroft or New Scotland Yard or both). The detective has tucked himself into a ball on his bed, all edges and elbows, still wrapped up in his coat. 

He immediately regrets bringing Judie.

“John. Excellent. I’m aware that the walls aren’t actually melting, but could you please confirm that the sink is at least a mathematically _improbable_ place for one to find a black hole?”

Nose in the air, Sherlock is clearly aiming for indignant, but there’s a wildness in the way his eyes flit around the room. An IV line and several wires are strewn across the bed, and John wonders who thought those had any chance of staying put.  
  
“Right, yes. Definitely no black hole.”

“But—you’re real?”  
  
“Yes.”

“And...?”

“Jen is real, too. I promise.”

“Actually, my name is—”

“Mycroft, shut _up!_ ” 

“Mycroft isn’t here, Sherlock.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Is he… are you seeing him?”

“Yes. He’s—talking. Over there.” 

“Okay,” he nods, and sits down on the edge of the narrow bed. Now they’re both facing Janet, who is biting her lip again. Sherlock fidgets.

“Sorry about this. He’s…”

“I’ll just drive myself home, yeah? I’ll call you. Goodnight John.”

“You don’t have to go,” he starts, but thinks better of it. Sherlock doesn’t need an audience, and this doesn’t exactly qualify as a romantic night out. There’s dating a doctor, and then there’s _dating a doctor_. “Alright. Thank you, Jan. Really. I’ll call tomorrow, I promise.”

She gives him that tight not-smile again, and clicks out on high pink heels. Those stilettos had her towering over him at the restaurant, even though she was at least an inch shorter than him when they’d first met. He didn’t mind, not when her legs looked like _that_. 

He turns back to his flatmate. 

“So. What exactly are you seeing right now? Anything interesting? Leprechauns, unicorns, a burning bush?”

“Mild synesthesia. Visual and auditory hallucinations consistent with LSD, which we assume is what I ingested. The hallucinations are primarily geometrical, but the floor appears to be moving, the sky outside in a frankly awful shade of aquamarine, and I can’t bring myself to even think about that space behind the cabinet. I’m also hallucinating people, which is atypical for most LSD users but not entirely unusual for me. There’s Mycroft, your date, and you of course. The black hole, and the wall thing. Earlier there was Lestrade, Molly Hooper, a small boy, three familiar paramedics, one unfamiliar, the Woman and,” his brows furrowed, “that celebrity you like, the blonde one.”

Sherlock was watching his flatmate with a peculiar expression, waiting for something—which made no sense, until he realizes the look was usually accompanied by some sort of social faux-pas and the words _‘not good?’_

“Alright,” John nods. “Need me to tell you what’s real?”

The mop of dark hair tilts forward a bit. 

“Well, right now it’s mostly just me. You were with Lestrade earlier, and the paramedics were probably real. Mycroft might’ve stopped by, we’ll have to ask, but he’s not here now. No children. Definitely not Irene, she wouldn’t have known and she’s probably halfway across the world, and Molly is probably still at St. Barts.”

“But the woman you came in with was real. Ginny. Jenny. Something.”

“Yes,” John sighs, “something like that. But she’s just left.”

(Once it’s worn off: “Wait, so how did you know I was real?” “I didn’t. But between you, Mycroft, or the wall thing, you were the least objectionable.” “Thanks. I think.”)

(Her name is Gwen, in case you were wondering.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LSD; atypical but benign hallucinations.


	10. (interlude)

There’s a period of over two years where Sherlock Holmes doesn’t see so much as a paracetamol tablet at a crime scene, because Sherlock Holmes is dead.

It’s during this time that John hears the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, whatever—by way of colorful anecdotes from Met employees and a handful of past clients, before he learns to just avoid anyone who’s ever met Sherlock Holmes. 

Everyone has a story.

John used to have more.


	11. flunitrazepam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eleventh may actually be the first, chronologically, if you don’t count the cocaine and morphine, which were intentional and therefore don’t count.

The eleventh may actually be the first, chronologically, if you don’t count the cocaine and morphine, which were intentional and therefore don’t count. 

“We’ll miss him around here, that’s fer sure. Lot of the guys would’ve gladly shaken his hand, that is if anyone could slow him down long enough.”

“Yeah, ah,”John has probably heard the officer’s name somewhere, but he just… can’t. “Yeah.”

“Known him since he was—oh, must’ve been over a decade now at least—twenty, twenty one? Skinny bastard, runnin’ around crime scenes, always high on something and insulting anyone who even breathed in the wrong direction. Not that much different from the way he is—or rather, was—but you did him some good I think.”

John is at Sherlock’s wake, the wake Sherlock’s brother insisted on holding, preceded by the funeral that he’d also insisted upon. The room is full of police and gawkers and police who’d come to gawk and the homeless and vaguely familiar restaurateurs and even a handful of professor-types, and he is very deliberately restraining himself to one (overfilled) glass of scotch.

Sherlock Holmes is dead. 

“Listen, you’re not fit for socializing right now, but it’s a wake and we’re meant to share memories and such. I figure I’ll tell you a good one about yer friend, fend off the well-wishers, maybe take your mind offa—well, you know. Just let me know if you’d rather I shove off.”

Reggie? His name is probably Reggie. He’s a good officer. Never made a fuss about waving two civilians in through the police barriers, never looked sideways at Sherlock, and he had a rumbling laugh whenever the detective deduced his weekend plans or the state of his lunchbox. That’s the closest Sherlock gets to playing, deducing trivia like that.

Sherlock is dead.

“Yeah, alright,” and he looks away. It’s all he can manage.

“So. A case. Guess it’s always cases with that one. And I’ve got one I _know_ you haven’t heard, not even from Himself,” they like to call him that, _Himself_ , the Met officers who haven’t been put off by Sherlock’s… by Sherlock, “because _he_ doesn’t remember it, either. Not the whole thing, anyway.” 

John tilts his head to look at Reggie for the first time, and asks, “concussion?”

“Nah. Drugs, of course. Rohypnol.”

 _Of course_. Easy to forget Sherlock’s little habit of getting stabbed, jabbed, gassed, dusted, and otherwise drugged by every criminal in London; easy to forget everything, when all John can see is his best friend’s body broken across the concrete. He can’t, God, he needs to leave, he can’t _he can’t he can’t…_

“Here, mate. Why don’t you finish that up, I’ll get you another. You look like you need it.”

Another overfull scotch, and Reggie is going over a serial murder case in graphic detail. John shouldn’t find that soothing, but he does.

“We’re getting nowhere, the media’s out of control, the big-wigs are breathing down our necks, when DI Forrester gets a text from our favorite druggie genius. An address, the word _murder_ , and that’s it—but it’s all we have, so we follow up. What do we find? Sherlock Holmes, comfy as you please, getting his beauty rest in some posh penthouse.”

“There he is sprawled out on the duvet, and there we are practically in riot gear. He’s got glowsticks on his wrists and the room _reeks_ of booze. Forrester—or was it Hopkins? Stanley Hopkins, he was Lestrade’s predecessor—anyway, we’re about to turn back around and hope no one makes a fuss about the door we kicked in, but Hopkins decides to wake him up just in case. Doesn’t work; he’s completely out. Hopkins gives the word to search the place, and sure enough, the bathroom is barricaded shut and he’s written ‘murderer’ in sharpie across the door.”

“Beat you to it, did he?” John’s mouth shifts, and it’s not a smile, but it’s less than a grimace. 

“Without even trying. Literally. He’s got our guy locked up in the bathroom, sure, but he wakes up thinking we’re on a drugs bust. No idea where he is, no idea who’s locked up in the bathroom, no idea how he avoided becoming victim number twelve. Had to deduce his own crime scene to figure out what happened.” 

“I’m sure he enjoyed that,” and funny thing is, John _is_ sure. 

(It doesn’t make him feel any better.)

(His best friend is dead.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place at Sherlock's wake. A police officer tells John about Sherlock catching a serial killer while drugged enough not to remember it. He has the killer locked in the bathroom the whole time, and nothing sexual is implied other than Sherlock being passed out on a bed alone and smelling like booze.


	12. methylphenidate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twelfth time. Sally.

The twelfth time:

“We used to run into this other private detective, last name Barker—Saul, Sam, something like that. Whatever. Families would hire him because he’s on billboards and he’s not an asshole, okay, still an asshole, but not nearly as much. But he _haaated_ Sherlock Holmes, just hated him, said he should be locked up with wadde—mmph, padded walls and med-i-ca-ted. So one day— no, it was a _whole week_ , swear to god, they’re both of ‘em on the same case, and the freak starts acting more and more twitchy. Literally _twitching_ , rushing around all everywhere, talking even faster than usual. Turns out this Barker guy finally snapped and started putting ritalin in his coffee—you’d think by now he’d… he’d stop drinking all that coffee.”

(It’s Sally again. She’s ugly drunk. She’s laughing. John reaches for a gun he’s not carrying, and Lestrade leads him away to the bar.)

(Sherlock Holmes is dead.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rival detective puts Ritalin in Sherlock's coffee.


	13. morphine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucky number thirteen: Sam Brown. Another story.

Lucky number thirteen: Sam Brown. 

John only vaguely recalls the forensic specialist—Sherlock had never singled her out like Donovan or Anderson. She’d been around for some of their more embarrassing cases. Now she hovered above John, holding out a bottle. 

“Water, Doctor Watson. Drink up.” 

He took it. She settled down next to him on the curb. 

“He was a good man. Most of us on the force know that. I guess we just… never thought to say so. I never thought it was something he’d want to hear.” Sam cleared her throat. “He saved my life once. I know he doesn’t like to mention that sort of thing. Didn’t.”

John doesn’t answer. They’re both quiet for a moment, trying to pretend she hadn’t just slipped up and used the present tense. 

“He took a knife in the shoulder for me.”

John nodded and drank his water. Another story. 

“Wouldn’t even know it, if I hadn’t seen his blood on my own shirt. The paramedics—”

John got up and left.

(Knife wounds to the shoulder can easily be fatal, if it knicks an artery, but Sherlock is lucky that way. Was. The paramedics would probably administer a low dose of morphine, and Sherlock certainly wouldn’t protest one of his drugs of choice, especially once he’s closed a case. Alcohol is John’s drug of choice.)


	14. scutellaria lateriflora, salvia elegans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourteenth time is scutellaria lateriflora and salvia elegans, sedative and anti-anxiety respectively—and really, Sherlock should have known better.

The fourteenth time is _scutellaria lateriflora_ and _salvia elegans_ , herbal sedative and anti-anxiety respectively—and really, Sherlock should have known better. It’s just that he’d been in _such_ a dark mood lately, and he’d been down having a chat with Mrs. Hudson when Lestrade rang. 

“Sherlock dear, you’re too thin,” she cood at him. “Have a muffin.”

“I don’t want a muffin,” he sighed, “and I am not too thin.”

He’d been starved in Serbia, and a few times before then, true, but the last two years had gained him at least a stone in muscle. He didn’t need any more food, not unless he wanted to visit the tailor _again_. 

“I just hate seeing you all out-of-sorts like this,” she prattled. “How about a cuppa? Or those cheesy scones you like? Oh, I know what will do the trick…”

He groaned. Why did he even come down here? It’s not like he was lacking in human contact these days, not if one counts junkies and drug dealers. Still, it was nice to talk to someone who called him _Sherlock dear_ , not _Shezza you nancy fuck_ , or _look, I’ll ring you back later_. 

By the time Lestrade found him draped over Mrs. Hudson’s floral print couch, she’d gotten a muffin, two scones, and an entire pot of tea into him. Best that he’d come down to 221A, anyway; who knows what sort of pharmaceuticals were on display in 221B. 

Thirty minutes later, he gets out—no, he _breezes_ out of a cab, then breezes through the police barrier, and breezes up to the crime scene. _Breeze_ ; what a peculiar word. The scene was a double homicide, practiced but unprofessional, two dead bodies in a busy bus terminal, stab wounds, barely a three; Lestrade must be trying to humour him.

He spends some time looking at the corpses, thinking about knife wounds. Not those knife wounds necessarily, just the general _idea_ of knife wounds. When he looks up, most of Lestrade’s team is blinking at him. He blinks back.

“Gas station attendant,” he announces, and is vaguely startled by the sound of his own voice. “Murder weapon down that grate, handle wiped clean but the blade may have partials. Sloppy. He’s been recently banned from Studio 338 and most likely several other local establishments. He’s killed before, all women, different method each time but all within a mile of their place of employment; look for other victims, he’ll have been banned from their places of work as well.”

And then he breezes right back out the police barrier to have a nap in the park. 

From the Met’s perspective, it looked like this: 

Sherlock Holmes was not answering his mobile. He hadn’t answered in days; when the bodies of two nineteen year old women were found stuffed into lockers at the Lewisham bus station, DI Lestrade finally threw up his hands and retrieved the detective from Baker Street himself. 

Donovan rolled her eyes. The rest of the team tossed around a series of meaningful glances. It was over two years since the detective had disappeared— _died_ —and the subsequent investigation that benched Lestrade and scattered his original team. The new team was mostly rookies, and only a handful had ever seen him in the flesh, but Sherlock Holmes had become something of a legend in his absence. 

So when he slides out of the taxicab—tall and devil-eyed—they know to expect theatrics. They’d been told about the insults and the invasions of privacy. They’re prepared for whirlwind movement and sudden, inexplicable non-sequiturs. They anticipate posh vowels and fine tailoring.

They get a man with bedhead, wearing cotton pyjamas and untied work boots under his iconic long black coat. 

He doesn’t say a word to anyone, just stands there in the middle of the terminal for a good ten minutes. He tilts his head, scratches his shoulder, rubs at a spot on his right side. His eyes are sleepy, and his hair is matted on one side from dozing on his landlady’s couch.

“Gas station attendant,” he says, slow and thick like honey. Fifty-two words later, he’s blown the lid off a serial murder case that had taken the yard two weeks and six dead women to even notice a pattern. In pyjamas. 

Then he wanders off through a flock of geese, bumps into the side of a park bench, and flops down onto the grass.

(John wasn’t there, and only hears about the incident through the grapevine months later. It takes a year and a half for anyone, aside from Sherlock, to realize Mrs. Hudson’s “herbal soothers” are a lot more potent than one would expect, especially when one vastly overestimates the dosage for a six foot adult man.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock should know better than to drink Mrs. Hudson's tea. Really.


	15. diamorphine hydrochloride, plus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ODs while John is gone on his sex holiday-- err, honeymoon.

Sherlock overdoses while John is gone on his sex holiday—err, honeymoon. 

It’s the first time Sherlock has actually overdosed since going through rehab nearly a decade ago. Lestrade suspects he’s already on something (he is: cocaine, 7% solution, paired with something a little more _designer_ that he’d perfected at uni) but then they surprise a suspect in the middle of shooting up, and he decided to dispose of the evidence by way of Sherlock’s thigh—and it all goes tits up.

There’s nothing all that interesting about it; as much as he might be above common people, Sherlock overdoses the same as anybody. Lestrade rides with him to the hospital, leaving Donovan to wrap up the case and Brown to get ahold of John (she can’t). Mycroft meets them at the entrance.

(It would’ve been the fifteenth time, but John never asks, and Lestrade never tells. At least a decade goes by before he sees it in Sherlock’s medical file and does the math.)

(The incident doesn’t stop him from using. He does deign to allow Mycroft his notes and weekly check-ins, even though his usage isn’t dangerous and the overdose was entirely not his fault.)


	16. saline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixteenth time it's an overdose of morphine—except it's not.

The sixteenth time it's an overdose of morphine in a sterile, skillfully applied IV line—except it's not, it's just saline, because Sherlock had gone ahead and predicted, no, actively arranged the majority of the last four-to-six weeks. 

The bastard. 

The crazy, self destructive, single minded bloody bastard. 

(If that doesn't prove that Sherlock Holmes would be utterly bored to death by a life of crime, John will eat his cane.) 

(It takes four stitches to close up the gash on Sherlock's head, two days for John to realize just how much he has to apologize for, and three more plus a few hours of sniveling on his friend's posh shoulder for him to actually do it.) 

(Sherlock's posh tan dressing gown turns out just fine after a visit to the dry cleaners.)


	17. (I’ve used it on loads of my friends, too)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventeenth time is a run-in with Irene Adler, who is less dead than they were all led to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I wrote this chapter before series 4. Originally John was supposed to discover Irene is still alive when Sherlock’s phone moans, but since THAT EXACT THING happens in series 4, I had to move some things around to fit canon. That meant losing fun lines like “If I recall correctly, John, you lied to me about the woman’s death—not the other way around. It’s not my fault Mycroft’s intel isn’t up to snuff.”

The seventeenth time is a run-in with Irene Adler, who is less dead than they were all led to believe. She ends up popping Sherlock in the hip with some kind of recreational drug, and the bastard _laughs_ like it’s just the most _delightful_ joke. John’s still not sure what was in the syringe; probably something posh and designer.

It starts, as these things always seem to do, with a dead body and a dozen or so of London’s finest. Eurus has been sorted out, and Sherlock is back in the game and more brilliant than ever. John’s found himself tagging along more and more often, like he used to back before—well, before everything. 

It’s good to be back to normal.

Except not _quite_ normal, because this case is at a BDSM club and the victim is suspended, gagged, and carefully trussed up like a Christmas ham with a neat bullet hole through his forehead. It was apparently consensual, except for that last bit. Obviously it’d be easier to misplace a length of rope, compromise a piece of equipment, drop the man the wrong way, even poison him—plenty of options that would be less obvious than shooting the man in the middle of a crowd.

Everyone is mostly just staring at the body, trying to figure out exactly what happened among all the ropes and bars and clamps, when Sherlock’s phone goes ahead and moans.

_.._ **_…_ ** _ohhhh_ **_yes…_ ** _.._

John recognizes the voice immediately, just like he recognizes that it’s not the same recording from three weeks ago; it’s been updated. He rolls his eyes so hard the motion rocks him back on his heels slightly.

Sally Donovan has been sneering at their surroundings for about an hour now, so the look she throws now is actually a bit impressive. 

“What the _hell_ was that?!”

“Text message,” Sherlock replies, but he’s staring at John and biting his lips together. They’re both on the verge of giggling. They’re five feet from a dead body, and the last text Sherlock got from Irene had led to them clinging together and ugly crying—but they’d giggled at worse. 

“Oi, freak! I said _what was that_? I didn’t think you were that much of a pervert—”

“Not now, Sally. It seems we’re going to have a visitor. Isn’t that right, Miss Adler?”

“Right as usual, Mister Holmes,” comes the immediate reply. “It’s been too long. You’re looking even better than the last time I saw you.” 

She’s behind them, standing inside a wide doorway behind a line of police tape. Her dress is gauzy and lavishly beaded, backlit by the floodlights until it’s almost entirely see-through. It’s the kind of dress that looks even better than naked, except John has seen her naked and knows that is _not at all true_. 

She gives the detective a full once-over, lingering at his chest, before taking a small step backward. The motion says _come here_ , and Sherlock is already across the room and ducking under the police tape.

Lestrade and Donovan move to follow, but stop when the two draw close. He doesn’t know about them, but John plans on eavesdropping shamelessly. Except—”

“You too, Johnny. Where would we be without our blogger?”

John jogs over and slips under the police tape to join them. 

“Kiss me like you kissed me in Vienna,” she says, just loud enough to be heard across the room. They seem to be having a second, unspoken conversation. That’s fine; John’s survived enough encounters between the Holmes brothers to have a certain fluency in _tall, dark, and crazy._

The crinkle at the edge of Sherlock’s eyes, some kind of _hello, friend_. A tilt of her chin: a challenge. 

Quirked lips, a faint wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyes: _what are you playing at?_

Her eyes dart just a fraction to the left, towards the police; _we have an audience_ , and there’s that familiar little smirk in reply.

“Kiss me like you kissed me in Tel Aviv,” he counters, and she raises both eyebrows. _Oh really_ , it says, and _good idea_. 

So they kiss.

Where they were, _who_ they were, John half expects something dramatic: she would slap his face, pull his hair, yank him down by the collar to bite his lip; or maybe he would pull her to him, dip her, do something ridiculously dramatic—or just as likely, something ridiculously awkward. 

But she actually does _kiss_ him, gentle and entirely human. Her thumb brushes the hollow of his neck, and one of his ridiculously large hands touches her cheek. It’s intimate. Familiar. Fond. They don’t break apart immediately. It was the kind of kiss you only saw in big-budget romantic dramas, accompanied by pouring rain and a swelling musical score. John can just make out the sound of Donovan’s brain exploding from the other room (a thin, drawn-out sort of _eeeeeeehhhhmmm_ ).

John’s a bit stunned, himself, to be honest. Not so stunned that he doesn’t see her wink, or see the smug twist to Sherlock’s mouth. He’s not _entirely_ stupid. But still, they put on a better show than Sherlock had managed with Janine. 

Irene’s face is turned away from their audience now, and the last time he saw that wicked look she was rolling backwards out of a third story window.

“For old time’s sake,” she says, and suddenly she has a small syringe in her left hand. She jabs it into Sherlock’s thigh. “No charge.”  
  


Sherlock is flying high almost immediately, melting against the door jam and chuckling to himself. Lestrade and Donovan, who also aren’t _entirely_ stupid, are suddenly on hand—but Irene is gone. 

“Bailey, Patterson, get over here! I need you to follow that woman: five-four, dark hair, wearing—”

“Yeah—we, um. We saw her. On it, sir.” 

“Oh, leave off,” the consulting detective crows. He holds up a small black thumb drive, precariously close to Lestrade’s nose. “Murder’s not her style. She got what she came for, but it’s no use now he’s dead.”

“We’ll be the judge of that, ta very much.”  
  
“What _ever_. You won’t catch her. She’s brilliant. The Woman.”

Sherlock is still floating on a cloud for the cab ride back to 221B; he refused the hospital yet again, sighing his praises for the woman’s chemist.

“Vienna,” he mumbles against the cab window. “Ridiculous. I dipped her like a sailor in Vienna, because it was silly and it made Kate laugh. We were all unbearably drunk. Would’ve been entirely too obvious, given the game away. Whatever the game was. Not _The Game_ , of course. Hmm.”

Drunk. Sherlock had gotten drunk with Irene (and Kate, who is Kate?) in Vienna. And then whatever happened in Tel Aviv to inspire _that_ kiss. It probably happened while he was _away_. While John was clinging to threads and trying not to reach for his gun, before Mary brought him back.

“Oh, settle down, Vienna was practically the only good thing in those three years, and Tel Aviv was months before that whole... business. How everyone missed that I was gone for three days _right_ when the woman was supposedly executed, I’ll never know.”

“Your brother is slipping.”

“I daresay, yes. He _still_ doesn’t know about Vienna.”

(Sherlock’s just glad he didn’t reply to Irene’s text; last year, after a close call in the Ukraine and a great deal of medically advisable morphine, Irene spent over an hour drunkenly teaching him how to moan correctly so she could have her own obscene text alert.)

(Sam Brown is just glad she had her camera on hand—not for Sherlock and that fabulous woman, but to document Donovan’s minor breakdown.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's murdered at a BDSM club, but really that's just an excuse to traumatize Donovan. Irene's usual cocktail.


End file.
